Don't Be Boring
by nmqttps
Summary: Molly Hooper, consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes, the jerk who works in the morgue.


Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sat in his chair, fidgeting. His fingers drummed against the plastic of the table set up in front of him— he needs to stop, he knows that there are a slew of journalists sitting in front of him who he knows would absolutely love to start this story out with _DI Lestrade, who despite his comforting words looked uneasy,_ but he can't. He _is_ uneasy. He's sure he's lying to the public. Three unconnected but identical suicides? He could hardly believe it.

Turns out, neither could the public.

"But you can't have serial suicides."

It took all of his strength not to roll his eyes— he allowed himself a tiny sigh, the shake of a head.

"Well, apparently you can."

"These three people... There's nothing that connects them?"

These people. He swore to god.

"There's no link that's been found _yet, _but we're looking for it- there has to be one."

And then-

A chorus of mobile phones. After checking that everyone else had indeed gotten one, that it was okay to pull them out, the entire room went to check the same message.

_Wrong! You know where to find me, love - MH 3_

Lestrade sighed.

_Oh, dear god._

It was nighttime when Molly finally got to the crime scene; she'd made it as quickly as she could. Which, apparently, still wasn't good enough.

"Molly, where have you been? We've been waiting for you for twenty minutes."

Lestrade held the police tape up for her, which she graciously ducked under, accepting the blue gloves that he thrust into her hands.

"I came as quickly as I could. I had just started the newest episode when you called me and anyways, Toby doesn't like to eat alone."

She smiled down to the pink tote she was carrying in her right arm. Greg groaned.

"You brought him with you again? Molly, if he tampers with evidence—"

"He never tampers with evidence. I need an assistant. People are just too loud."

Molly scooped her hand into the bag, pulling the fluffy orange cat out of the bag and pulling him close to her chest.

"And just not cute enough, isn't that right, Tobes?"

She wasn't speaking to Lestrade anymore. He knew how genius worked. He led the two of them upstairs and let her and her cat get to work.

The room was dilapidated and bare. Molly dropped Toby to the ground, wrapping her cardigan against herself.

The victim was on the ground, face down, wearing a cute shade of pink- well, Molly supposed it would have been cute if that wasn't the only colour she was wearing.

She frowned, kneeling next to her.

_Rache..._

"German, for revenge."

She looked up to Anderson, who stood just behind her; he was smiling, like he'd done something right. Cute.

"Hm... I don't know. She's not German."

"Well, what is she, then?"

Popping Anderson's ego was never a good idea. It wasn't her fault it was so fragile.

"Well, she's... dead, that's for sure."

She smiled up at Lestrade, who didn't have her sense of humour. It was why she continually joked with him- it was nice to see the older man flustered.

"Wow, thanks, Molly. Come on, give me something. You have two minutes."

Right. Back to work.

"Well, she's a serial adulterer, for one... Probably works in the media."

She stood up, letting Toby roam around in the corner somewhere as she searched on her mobile for any clues...

"Hm, yes. She's from- She's from Cardiff, I think."

"You think?"

"Well, no, I know. You see..."

This was, without a doubt, the worst part of her job as consulting detective. She normally didn't mind the morgue- it was quiet, for one, and pleasantly chilly- but she knew better than to go after six on weekdays if she could help it.

Unfortunately, right now she couldn't.

She tiptoed down the stairs quietly, peeking her head around the corner to make sure that _he_ wasn't around. No sign of him. Well, that was good- she didn't really have the patience to deal with his goings-ons at the moment. Just a quick trip to the mortuary, a peak at some bruising, and back to the surface in time to get some cupcakes at the bakery by her house before it closed.

It was cool and dark in the basement. Cool, dark, and thankfully alone- he must be on lunch, or break, or just grabbing some strange equipment to perform his latest... experiment. Nope— just Molly and about twelve dead bodies. Oh, and the skull perched on Sherlock's desk. Sherlock spoke to him sometimes— his name was John Watson, a nineteenth century specimen from the Second Anglo-Afghan War.

She bid a quiet _hi, there_ to the skull Watson, glad that he was the only one manning the desk.

She didn't know where the real, live worker was— she was just grateful that it wasn't _here, in front of her face._

She scurried to the wall of drawers, scanning the names until she found the man in question.

"Ahh. Just you and me, tonight."

She smiled at the corpse, using the pen in her pocket to poke around the man's ears— there was a speckle of bruises on his neck, but it wasn't what she was looking for.

"Hm... No, the pattern's all wrong—"

"Oh, Hello, Molly, I wasn't expecting you."

She leapt up, dropping her pen as she swivelled to meet eyes with Dr. Sherlock Holmes— He looked pallid in his white lab coat, messy black hair sticking up from his angular head, bloodstains already smearing his front and sleeves. How did he end up getting those? Best not to ask.

Best not to look too long into those cerulean blues, either. Damn.

"Oh- h- hey, Sherlock. How're things been? Going? How're you?"

She was doing great. Just great. Coherent and flirtatious. She wasn't even wearing lipstick.

"Unexceptionally. I wasn't expecting you."

She kept from scowling. Ruining Sherlock's schedule— not a very good idea.

"Well, I just needed to pop on down to look at the victims, you know—"

But she'd already lost his attention. He'd turned form her already, going about doing... whatever it was he was doing, on the body next to hers.

"You should have called. Would've saved you the trouble. I'm busy."

"Well— I need to help Lestrade out— The murders, you know—"

He perked up, if only for a second. He gave her a harsh half-smile before going back to his body.

"Murders? I thought the news said it was suicides. _Serial Suicides._"

She laughed— he was making a joke. Right? He was joking.

"Well, they're obviously murders. They're so connected, similar places of death, They all had no reason to die... You know what I mean? You surely follow the deaths. I mean, you deal with them all—"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I have no interest in detective work, Ms. Hooper. It's this work,"

He gestured to the half-naked body before him, skin the same colour as the metal slab it was laid on—

"— _This_ work that interests me. The Chemistry. The secrets a body will tell you. The— well."

He put on his best homicide grin— the one he usually reserved for Sally, whenever she escorted Molly to the mortuary. Whenever Molly could be bothered to be escorted.

"Dissection is always... Satisfying, as well."

She rolled her eyes. That seemed to shut him up.

"Sherlock, I'm not scared of you. I don't know if you recall but I just broke into the morgue to poke around some dead guy's head to see if the bruising behind his ears corresponded to my theory of coercion via firearm. On my own time. I'm— I'm pretty cool with dissection."

She wasn't sure if she was all that cool with dissection.

Apparently, she looked pretty gung ho about it, because Sherlock's smile changed. The corners dropped, his incisors hidden behind his lips; it didn't look genuine in the way Molly's smile would look, or even Lestrade's— it had a Sherlockian sort of sharpness to it. Like he was dissecting her right now.

Well, he wasn't the only one with eyes quicker than a scalpel. She took a quick look at his victim, then to her own— she was done here. There was nothing this dead man could help her with.

"Well, you said you were busy. I don't see what you're so worried about, though— autopsy, I see? I wouldn't bother. You can tell by the cut of his jeans that it was a stroke."

He looked at her, head slightly tilted— oh, she knew that look.

"Wh- what do you— he's not wearing any—"

She pushed the drawer closed on her own body, leaving just the one man in between them— she took a step forward, meeting his eyes. Her own smile mirrored his, even as it fell from his face.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Holmes. Don't be _boring._"


End file.
